Spring comes, and Nie Huaisang is seen with his sabre for the first time since— anyone's guess as to when.

Intrepid ad man Pete Campbell plunges into the twilit homosexual underworld of New York City in search of answers. Bob Benson helps.

If Jiang Cheng kills him here — so long as he sits with Wei Wuxian’s body in this field until he grows cold, and he does not return to Lotus Pier — his life will have been worth its cost.

Henry Bolingbroke is an absurdly youthful jousting champion and a man of few words. But his cousin is King of England, so that has to count for something.

How many nights has he entertained this very vision of Tang Fan, all lean long lines and li after li of smooth skin? Most, in some shape or another, since Tang Fan first stormed into his life and made his home in what wreckage he found there. Too many, but so few. To have it now, real enough to see, too far from reach to touch— it’s agony.

He wonders, for all the seconds it takes for Tang Fan to start to move, if he’s fallen asleep again. He’s not convinced it is at all possible for him to have a dream as odd as this, as ominous, as wonderful. The Tang Fan that is trying to kick his bare feet beneath the lifted linens while all the heat Sui Zhou’s body has pressed into them escapes is too wholly fleshed out to be one of Sui Zhou’s fantasies.

Violet starts to see India the way India sees, and everything else falls out of focus.

And this is the thing: Kuan-hung's not busy, and he's sure enough to think that they both know it without his saying so. But he gives a little rolling shrug of his shoulders, anyway, with his limited range of motion, and answers, "I'm not," because he can. And, "Can't you take care of yourself?"

and he shot me in the head

Silva asks for Bond's assistance in working out some personal issues. Well, 'asks'.

Hockstetter knows all the best places to hide. What else are friends for?